


Fix Me

by Anna_AI_v1



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24841768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_AI_v1/pseuds/Anna_AI_v1
Summary: “Are you here because of the twitching?”“Yeah,” Turning the arm around, he closes and relaxes the fingers, a small tremor making the fourth and fifth digit twitch sporadically. “Even Stark couldn’t find anything wrong, so you’re literally my last hope.”Grinning at the challenge, you shake your head at the man. “No pressure, huh?” Removing the plates one by one you give him a wink. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint, Mr. Barnes.”“Bucky, please,” Holding your gaze, he leans closer, and those steely eyes swirl with flirtation. “Can’t have you calling me Barnes, when you’re inside me, now can we?”You don’t hide the snort at the innuendo and just pick up tweezers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 181





	Fix Me

“Sorry,” His voice is cold, perhaps even a bit cruel. “I’m not interested.”

Bucky crosses his arms and lets a sneer curl the upper lip. He has to. You seem like the stubborn sort and he doesn’t want to give any false hope. But instead of embarrassment at the rejection, you simply gaze at him with a mildly amused smile.

“Shame,” Your smile leaks into the word, while the last tools click in their place, the box closing with a snap. 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. The two of you are alone in one of the labs Stark has appointed as the “Cyborg Maintenance Lab”. You, being a biomechanical engineer and technician, have been tasked to fix and tweak the Winter Soldier’s prosthetic, the Falcon’s wings, Black Widows equipment and other gadgets whenever necessary. You’re not the only one of course, which is why this is only your third time interacting with the grumpy man.

“Well, Mr. Barnes, I apologize if my offer has offended you. I meant no harm, truly. You may leave now.” 

His steely gaze - both in colour and intensity - follows you around for a few additional seconds before he casually slips off the table and walks towards the exit. It’s not the first time a woman has asked him out, and not the last, most likely. But Bucky is tired of the female population trying to sink their claws into him. Yes, he has one of those stereotypical bad-boy reputations. Yes, he enjoys casual company occasionally. No, he doesn’t want to fuck each and every chick under Stark or SHIELD employment. 

Pausing just outside the glass doors, he gives you another thoughtful look. Then again, you hadn’t been quite as… obnoxious in your offer as most. You’re older than a majority of the women that had thrown themselves at the ‘poor ex-assassin’, late 20s-early 30s, and as he watches you clean up the mess, humming, he doesn’t understand what had prompted the offer. It’s not like you are heartbroken or insulted by his dismissal.

But he’s still not interested and that’s that.

* * * 

It’s weeks later that Barnes walks into the lab during your shift. You’re not sure if he has been avoiding you or what, but his current condition doesn’t give you reason to probe him for answers. It’s clear that the lab is his first stop after the mission - the scent of blood, burnt plastic and sweat is as much of a giveaway as the ripped clothing. Barnes is clearly injured as he gently lowers himself on the table, placing the prosthetic on a specifically designed scanner. 

You don’t speak beyond short instructions, while the program analyses his arm for faults, and he simply stares at the wall in front of him with empty eyes.

Once the scan is complete, you gently remove the plates and start working on the wires that had been damaged during the fight. It would be much easier to take the prosthetic off, but Stark had given strict instructions to not do so unless absolutely necessary, therefore it’s unavoidable that Barnes stays for the show.

“This is going to take awhile,” You warn, eyes pointedly locked on the bloodied skin. “Maybe I should ask medical to come up here?”

“No.”

Hearing the finality in that one word, you don’t push any further and concentrate on the task. 

It’s silent, while you work. So silent, in fact, that Bucky can hear the gears shifting, clicking, and your breath rushing out. At first, the silence makes him think about the blood and violence he has returned from. He tries not to dwell, but the bruises and lacerations on his body throb in reminder with each heartbeat. Bucky slips deeper and deeper, thoughts turning back to his years as a Hydra assassin and the darkness swells, slowly but surely pulling him into self-loathing. 

That is until you hiss a short ‘ _fuuuuuck’._

Bucky’s eyes snap to your face, nearly close enough to touch, and he skims over your dissatisfied expression. Your features are plain and softly altered by years, but there’s a certain beauty in the way you bite your lower lip in concentration and lower elegant eyebrows into a frown. 

“Something wrong?” 

He’d been silent for so long that you start at the interruption, nearly dropping the pliers in your grasp. Huffing in annoyance you give him a reluctant smile and shrug. “Some of the gears are also damaged, which the scan had missed. It’s delicate and tedious work to switch them, that’s all.” You look him over. “Is this causing discomfort?”

Bucky thinks it over for a while. “It’s unpleasant, but not painful, no.”

Giving him a nod, you return to work. His gaze makes you slightly uncomfortable - he can see your shoulders twitch - but focused on the task at hand (pun intended), you don’t say anything. It doesn’t take much to forget your ‘patient’ and concentrate on the beautiful machinery. _Finally,_ hours later, you’re clicking the last plate in place, a soft satisfaction colouring your expression. You love your work, the ability to heal and improve (technology, yes, but seeing as technology is meant to help people, you truly do feel like you’re helping them, if indirectly), and the damage has been extensive. Which is why, proud of the results, you don’t think much, as you give a slight peck to the prosthetic and murmur “All done, beautiful.”

Bucky, on the other hand, starts so hard that his arm sends your tools, wires, and other pieces of broken machinery flying off the table. 

“The fuck?”

Your glance up at him, eyes wide, slightly embarrassed that you had forgotten about the man attached to technology. Oops. “Apologies, Mr. Barnes. You’re all done.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, far more confused than offended. So used to the disgust and distrust that his prosthetic has received, he’s properly bewildered by the loving gesture. You, however, don’t seem too bothered, as if kissing machinery is the most natural thing in the world. As if that synthetic part of him, the _weapon_ created by Hydra is acceptable, valuable… Beautiful. The notion makes something in his chest twist painfully, and Bucky hurries out of the room before he has to analyze the feeling. 

You simply sigh at the mess. 

“Not even a thank you, huh. And here I thought guys from the 40s were gentlemen.”

Oh well, life goes on. You kneel to begin cleaning.

* * * 

Lifting eyes from the microscope, you turn towards a man clearing his throat.

“Can I help you?”

His eyes twinkle, when he motions towards a backpack in his left arm. “I’m having a bit of problem with my wings. Stark sent me here and I was hoping you’d take a look.”

“Sam Wilson, I presume,” You laugh, reaching out to take the beauty for yourself. “Take a seat and let’s see if I can help.”

It’s not your first time seeing the wings, so you check the basics first. Falcon’s equipment is well cared for, which you note, earning a proud smile from the man as he excitedly recounts all the shit those poor wings had gone through during their service. The problem isn’t obvious at a glance, so you two spend a good hour swapping ideas and checking the parts for damage. 

“Oooh,” Grinning, you point at the damaged circuits. “How did that happen?”

Looking at the tiny damaged parts of the main board, Sam’s face twists in a grimace. “Electricity. Got zapped by one of those kids running around LA. I’m guessing this will take a while to fix, huh?”

Theatrically running your chin as if in deep thought, you shake your head. “Not good, Mr. Wilson, not good at all. How soon are you going out to the field?”

Sighing with hands clasped behind his head, he leans back and gives the wings a longing look. “Had plans for tomorrow. Guess I’ll have to stay behind.” His smile is forced. “Damn, I’ve been looking forward to it. Missions this big don’t come up all the time.”

Perking up at the mention of a big mission, you give him a curious look. “Who’s going?”

“Now, now,” Sam wiggles his finger with a smile. “We both know that classified.”

Rolling your eyes, you cannot help but snort. “Yes, but everyone except for Stark and Rogers are going to come up here for their equipment and mandatory checks, anyway.”

“Then why do you ask?”

Pointing at his wings, spread out on the station between the two of you, you explain. “If Barnes, Romanoff, Barton, Lang and a dozen others come here for gear check-ups, I won’t have much time to fix your wings, now will I, Mr. Wilson? And we all know that Barton leaves all his shit broken until the very last moment.”

Sam’s shoulders slump in disappointment as the meaning registers. “Barton and Romanoff are definitely going, not sure about Barnes.”

Sighing you take another look at the board before you. “I’ll do what I can, but no promises. Check in tomorrow?”

Jumping up with youthful energy, Sam gives you a blinding grin. “You’re the best. Thanks.”

Waving him out, you give a long and pitiful sigh, eyes sorrowfully glancing at the clock. Your shift was supposed to end within an hour and you had a date planned, but… Gah. The world needs you. Murmuring about the underappreciated superhero support staff, you shoot a quick apology to your cousin’s roommate (not that you even know what he looks like) and set to work. 

While it does sadden you that your chances of growing old alone a nearing a hundred percent, the beauty of the technology before you and the complexity of the task is rejuvenating. 

You get to work. 

At 5:42 AM you wake up to Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes knocking on the table before you. Sam gives you an apologetic look, though amusement at the keyboard imprints on your face is not diminished. Bucky, meanwhile, watches you much like one would watch an adorable but potentially unstable animal. 

Grunting a sound that approximates as a greeting, you motion towards the backpack with more grandeur than 30 minutes of sleep on top of a cheap keyboard should allow. 

“It’s done?” Sam looks truly surprised as he picks up the wings, glancing at the mountain of empty coffee cups on the table. 

“Good as new,” Stretching in the chair, you give the backpack a dirty look. “Much as I like a challenge, I hope to never see it again.” You think it over. “Okay, maybe not never, but not any time soon, either.”

“That bad, huh?” The bastard’s smile this morning makes you squint in annoyance. 

“Let’s just say, I feel like I need a cigarette after tonight, and I don’t even smoke.”

Grinning at Sam’s raucous laughter, you turn to Barnes, who’s also sporting an amused smirk. “Are you here for a check-up, Mr. Barnes?”

Suddenly looking uncomfortable at the prospect of you working on his prosthetic, Bucky leans back, arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

“Yep. Julie’s coming within an hour, but I can still take a look if it’s something minor?”

It’s quite entertaining to watch emotions and expressions shift on the man’s face. Finally, with a supportive hand from Sam, Bucky takes a seat and extends his arm. You’re too burned out to filter what comes out of your mouth, and the sight of the lethal machinery has the words leaving your lips faster than you think them.

“Well, hello, gorgeous. We meet again, huh?” Making sure to keep your eyes on the scanner, you gently run the fingertips over the pleasantly cool plates. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The.. ugh… Last two digits twitch sometimes.” Bucky’s voice is low, rough, but as much as your gentle reverent touch confuses him, he doesn’t want you to stop. Shooting Sam a pointed look - the bastard is already grinning and texting (Steve, no doubt) - Bucky extends his fingers to illustrate the twitch. 

“Hmm...” Your touch grows more firm, prodding at the plates of each finger. “The scan results show no abnormalities. Does it affect your grip strength?” You slip your fingers between the metal ones and squeeze a bit, giving Bucky an inquiring look. 

He sits there still as a statue, eyes locked on your intertwined fingers. 

“Mr. Barnes?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Bucky shakes his head and pointedly looks away. 

“Well, in that case I’d advise to come up here some time for a detailed analysis. It will take a while, but I’m sure Julie or Marco will figure it out.”

Standing up and stretching all the way to the ceiling you share a few words with Sam, while Barnes slowly gets up from the bench. Your sleep-deprived brain doesn’t note the heavy look Bucky gives you before leaving the room, nor does it see Sam’s mischievous smile as he offers to take you out for coffee as thanks. All that matters now is the sweet siren song of your bed.

* * * 

Bucky stares at his prosthetic with a frown so severe that the couple of agents squeezed into the opposite seats scoot to the furthest corner, giving him worried looks. Your phantom touch still lingers, even more than a week later, but that’s not even the most confusing part. No, it’s the fact that he wants to see you again. Which is ridiculous - the two of you don’t even know each other. You’ve met seven times in total, and all of them in the lab. So why…

“You all right, Buck?” Steve has that ridiculous uniform on, but what makes Bucky roll his eyes is the genuinely worried look on his friend’s face. “Is your arm bothering you again?” The twitching hasn’t subsided, though neither of the technicians had found anything wrong with it. 

It goes without saying that he hasn't gone back to see you. 

“It’s fine,” Fixing Steve with a glare doesn’t work, but it makes him feel better. “What’s the holdup?”

Giving Bucky a look that clearly says ‘ _we’re discussing this later_ ’, Captain America looks at the bridge. “A couple of techs are coming, in case we need them to deal with the cryo-chambers.”

It takes Bucky a few seconds to put two and two together. The rescue mission for the cryo-frozen operatives is bound to require technical support, though Bucky has assumed that one of the SHIELD agents was going to deal with it. Now, taking in Steve’s announcement, his thoughts immediately go to a certain woman with curious eyes and deft fingers.

“Who?” He presses his lips together as soon as the word leaves them, but it’s too late - there was too much emotion in the question and Steve is giving him a _look,_ which is bound to turn into one of those Talks that make Bucky’s eyes glaze.

Your arrival is both a blessing and a curse. 

You step onto the bridge dressed in the snug SHIELD operative uniform, a briefcase in one hand and backpack swung over the shoulder. Various tools stick out of your belt and pockets, making you feel like an over-decorated Xmas tree. Julie walking beside you is no better, though she somehow makes it look good. The usual curious smile is gone from your face, a disgruntled expression sitting firmly in its place. You like your lab - the clean and tidy (okay, somewhat tidy) environment, where you barely have to talk to people is the perfect place for your mind. Brains before brawn. Routine before excitement. You hate everything about the field with a passion that rivals Marco’s addiction to hot pockets. 

Stepping off the bridge you immediately notice Barnes staring at you, lips pressed into a thin line. The moody soldier doesn’t even spare Julie a glance and continues to look at you with that mildly irritated expression that most children receive when stealing a cookie from the jar. Barely noting the inquisitive glance Rogers throws your way, you secure the briefcase, turn to the brunette, cock a hip, cross your arms and scowl. 

“Glare all you want, Mr. Barnes. This was Romanoff’s idea, and I like it just as much as you do.”

Straightening up, Bucky turns those intense eyes away and shakes his head as if in disapproval, but the smirk doesn’t escape your notice. You’re about to give him another piece of your mind, but Captain America recognizes the brewing spat and intervenes.

“We’re very grateful to have you, ma’am.” Rogers gives you a boyish grin. “Now please sit down.”

You do so with a petulant pout that makes a couple of agents laugh. Bucky quickly hides the smile. 

  
  


“Julie, how much time?” Sweat dripping into your eyes and the burns on your face, you continue tampering with the cryo-tube or whatever it’s called. 

“Five minutes, twenty three seconds,” Comes a muffled reply, barely audible through the gunfire. 

Cursing, you continue working faster, but there’s not much hope left anymore. The facility is under attack, the test-subjects (you cannot allow yourself to think of them as children, it just hurts too much) are locked in the chambers, and like it’s a terrible action movie, the breach of the Mad Scientist systems has initiated a self-destruct. Apparently, none of the agents on the team are all that good with software and their meddling has caused more problems that yielded results. 

“What kind of cliche move is a self-destruct, anyway?” You mutter, getting ready to pry open the tube. 

Just as your fingers grasp it, an arm closes around your throat, lifting you up and away from where you had been crouched on the ground, avoiding stray bullets. Your assailant doesn’t waste time dragging you away, bodily shielding himself. Have you had any air left to complain, you’d have loudly pronounced ‘ _See what happens when you take tech support out of their labs?’_ , but instead you gape like a fish out of water and scratch against the rough material of whatever evil-uniform the Strangler is wearing.

“Shit.”

Your eyes meet Barnes’ as the man holding you exits from the cover of cryo-chambers and lifts a big gun to aim at his head. There’s a second where everyone stands frozen, uncertain of how to proceed. You can see Barnes consider shooting the bastard that’s crushing your windpipe, but he hesitates and drops to the ground at the very last moment. It’s mesmerizing to watch him jump away and behind a partially broken cabinet faster than any human should be able to, just as the Strangler unleashes a hail of bullets. With the Winter Soldier pinned to his position and unable to return fire, you realize that you’re on your own. 

SHIELD had offered you a weapon before you left for the mission, however, having zero experience with using one, you had declined. Regretting that choice when the black-spots start dancing in your vision, you stop feebly scratching at the arm below your chin and start groping at the tools shoved in your pockets. 

It’s Julie that comes to your rescue, brandishing a crowbar and screaming bloody murder. Shocked by the ferocity of a petite brunette, your assailant loosens his hold and you twist slightly to stab backwards with a screwdriver. Everything happens so fast that you’re not even sure how you manage it. The man shoots, turns away from Julie, happily intercepting your Screwdriver-of-Death with his eyeball. Supposedly it hurts, because you’re flung away from him and land on the floor near Barnes, who then takes the chance to finish what you started. Gasping for air you give him a thumbs up when he opens fire, and crawl back towards the tubes. There’s barely any time left. 

Cussing, Bucky picks up Julie, who’s heavily bleeding from the bullet wound to the calf and gives a second to appreciate the bright blue end of the screwdriver sticking out of a man’s skull. 

“Make note: don’t piss off the tech,” Julie slurs with a proud grin, as the soldier drags her towards the other technician that's frantically ripping at the panels of the cryo-chamber. 

The gunfire in the building doesn’t stop and there are two more kids in the tubes, but there’s no more time left. Steve orders everyone to move out before whatever sort of self-destruct initiates, and you hiss a curse. Bucky watches you pry open one of the chambers and moves closer, body ready to grab the kid and dash to the exit. And yet, one glance at you has him pausing. Your face is burned and stained with blood, deep bruises already forming around the neck, but the determination in your eyes remains. Bucky already knows what you’re about to say. He’s seen that look in Steve’s blues too many times to count.

“Take him and go, I’ll see what I can do about the last one,” You sound gruff, growly, almost like Batman, which is probably why you say it. 

There’s less than a minute left and you’re a _moron_ for even trying, but Julie has gotten halfway to opening it and the kid… You can’t leave him. 

“There’s no time,” Bucky states the obvious, but you can see his eyes lock on the remaining child. It’s just as difficult for him as it is for you. The gears in his head spin, forming a hare-brained plan, but he moves to obey you. “Fuck. Steve’s going to kill me.”

He doesn’t say more, grabs the boy you had unfrozen, gives you a severe stare that translates to _‘You’re a fucking moron, but I approve’,_ and runs out of the room as if his ass is on fire. You don’t fixate on the fact that yours is soon to be quite literally so. 

It’s a race against time and everything you know says that there’s no way you can make it, but your trembling fingers tear at the hardware, throat seizing up from the previous abuse and terrified gasps. You can hear Rogers shouting something through the comms, but terror mutes all except for your heartbeat. The first explosion, a couple of rooms over sounds just as you begin prying the lid open. Using the bloody crowbar you grunt and hiss in effort, tears of frustration running down muddy cheeks as another boom shakes the building. 

You heave to no avail until beautiful silver fingers appear from behind your shoulder, grasping the handle of the lid and pulling with enough force to make the glass-metal structure screech. The tube opens up with a clang and Bucky turns to you, fury and desperation in one single command. “RUN!”

You’re by the door when he throws the child over his shoulder and follows. The explosives in the foundation of the room detonate with a resounding boom, sending you flying at the wall, followed by a pile of concrete. You know that there’s no time to roll around in agony, but something heavy is on your back, and slick liquid is quickly soaking through your uniform. You hear your name and croak a _‘Here!’_ before another explosion sounds. It feels like the entire building is collapsing, folding in on itself, and your mind helpfully reminds you that being buried alive or dying of suffocation is not a fun way to go. However, it seems that you’ve collected just enough karma points, for the weight from your back lifts and warm metal wraps around your waist. 

It hurts and you’re screaming bloody murder when Bucky crashes outside, yet you do leave the building alive. 

Landing in a heap of blood, dust and twisted limbs, Bucky gently places the child and slumps between him and you. His breath is laboured but it’s nothing compared to your moaning gasps as you position your body to lay on one side, hoping to reduce the agony from whatever damage had been inflicted to your poor body.

Footsteps run to the three of you, snuggled to the dirty ground, and you peel open your eyelids, which had been squeezed closed due to pain, to take in the surroundings. Your gaze meets Bucky’s and you momentarily forget the injuries at the expression on his face - he’s smiling at you with something akin to respect. You’d prefer to call him weirdo, but your windpipe is still recovering, so instead you return the sentiment with a pained grin.

“...you’re lucky the explosives within the building were small. Otherwise-”

Truth be told, you’re not listening. Rogers has been raving at you and Barnes for literal hours- through medical and reports - so you’re perfectly aware of his worried Captain speech. Apparently you had endangered the entire mission and this sort of behavior is intolerable under the best of circumstances. You suppose he’s trying to guilt you, but it’s not working whatsoever. Loopy from the meds and still twitching from the adrenaline withdrawal, you stare at the floor and fantasize about a good long week of solitude. Bucky’s no better, though - eyes unfocused, shoulders loose, he watches the speech with a mischievous little smirk on his lips. 

Glancing at Captain America, when he pauses the rant to take in another breath and start over, you raise your hand. 

He starts, surprise evident, but reaffirms his glare before nodding for you to speak. 

“Does this mean there won’t be any more tech-field operations?” You ask, keeping your expression innocent.

“Absolutely,” Steve’s vehement response has you grinning. 

“Awesome.”

High on pain medication, you don’t really care when Steve turns purple and Bucky snorts. 

It all turned out fine in the end, you muse, and it’s not really your fault that someone had brought the lab-rats to the gunfight. You had warned them.

* * * 

“It had my name on it!” You growl, almost teary eyed at the sight of the empty food container. 

Marco has the decency to look sheepish. “For all it’s worth, the lasagna was heavenly.”

Eyes bright with tears of fury at the loss of your lunch, you drop the container, grab one of the tools littering the tabletop, and advance on your colleague with intentions of murder. The sight of you brandishing a screwdriver has Marco backpedalling, until he’s cornered and wearing the _Oh shit!_ expression. The two of you have been friends for a couple of years, and he knows that food is sacred to you. Or at least he’s supposed to. Perhaps he needs a reminder. Closing the remaining distance in a prowl of a hungry predator, you bring the tool close to his face and smile wickedly. 

“Next time you take my lasagna,” You hiss at the man. “I’ll carve it out of you with the bluntest tool in the lab.”

You give the words a moment to penetrate into his head, receive a nod of understanding, and step away with one final warning look. The lunch area is separated from the rest of the lab by a thin glass wall, so you notice Barnes leaning against the doorway almost immediately. He’s smirking at your display of aggression, both arms crossed loosely across the chest. 

There hadn’t been any opportunities to talk to the moody soldier ever since the mission, so his presence at your lab is welcome, if somewhat surprising. Dropping the screwdriver on the closest surface, you enter the main lab and nod in a greeting. 

“You’re quite the menace, aren’t you?” Bucky grins, much to your irritation, even as he plops on the bench and places the prosthetic on the scanner. It doesn’t escape your notice that there’s no hesitation any more. 

“I don’t take kindly to people stealing my food,” You explain, fingers dancing over the screen, checking the data. “I’m not seeing any abnormalities on the scan.” You raise eyebrows and take in the relaxed smile on Bucky’s face. “Are you here because of the twitching?”

“Yeah,” Turning the arm around, he closes and relaxes the fingers, a small tremor making the fourth and fifth digit twitch sporadically. “Even Stark couldn’t find anything wrong, so you’re literally my last hope.”

Grinning at the challenge, you shake your head at the man. “No pressure, huh?” Removing the plates one by one you give him a wink. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint, Mr. Barnes.”

“Bucky, please,” Holding your gaze, he leans closer, and those steely eyes swirl with flirtation. “Can’t have you calling me Barnes, when you’re inside me, now can we?”

You don’t hide the snort at the innuendo and just pick up tweezers.

For the first time, the two of you chat, while you work.

* * * 

Sam is trying to be sneaky, you know, but he’s almost as bad at it as Julie. Your new-found friendship (doused in heavy amounts of flirting) with Bucky hasn’t gone unnoticed - everyone is trying to either set the two of you up or warn you against getting involved with the Winter Soldier. You’re still not sure about Sam’s intentions, but the direction of your conversation is unmistakable. 

Losing what little patience you have, you decide to stop beating around the bush.

“Sam, listen, my lunch break is almost over, so I’ll just go right ahead and answer the unspoken inquiry: no, I’m not sleeping with Bucky. We’re just friends.” The statement is delivered with a deadpan face, but the sight of the Falcon choking on his drink has you grinning within seconds.

“I wasn’t...”

“Yeah you were.” You motion to the waiter that you’re ready to pay and return to sipping water.

Sam doesn’t pout, though it's close. “Alright, fine. I just think that you’d make a good couple.”

Ah, team Get-Together-Already. Shaking your head with a smile, you decide to enlighten the man. “A couple months ago I asked him out. He made it clear that he’s not interested, Sam.”

“Wait,” Brown eyes wide, he watches you. “You did?”

“Yep,” Swiping the card and thanking the waiter, you stand up to collect your things. “Julie bet fifty bucks that I don’t have the balls to ask the Winter Soldier out.” Patting your bag you don’t hide the grin. “Scared the man off, but earned me this beauty.”

Laughing, Sam stood up as well. “Is that why he avoided the labs for so long in the beginning?”

“That would be my guess. All in all, however, there’s nothing for you or Steve to worry about. I’m not trying to ‘get fresh’ with the Winter Soldier.” Grinning you give Sam a saucy wink. “Though I won’t complain if he does.”

* * * 

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bucky stares at the newest intern with disbelief. “A date, are you sure?”

Tommy gives a jerky nod and mashes the buttons on the scanner. It’s a precautionary checkup before the two week long mission, and truth be told, Bucky would have weaseled out if it, had he known that you’d be gone. But he wanted to say goodbye, to see you laugh one last time before the blood and gunfire that was undoubtedly awaiting him. It’s disappointing that you’re gone. 

And even more so that you’re out on a _date_. All that time (all ten seconds) memorizing your schedule wasted just for some prick to steal you away... 

Growling, Bucky jumps up to his feet as soon as the scanner finishes the analysis and beeps with positive results. He needs to leave before the mystery man has a name, but his mouth has clearly declared independence where you’re concerned, and the question rumbles with an angry edge.

“With whom?”

The ginger boy nearly pisses himself at the glower the Winter Soldier is sporting, but stutters out a response, nonetheless. “A-agent Yates, I think?”

Bucky mulls over the name for a while. He vaguely remembers the name - Oscar Yates - tough nothing specific jumps to mind. Nodding at the intern, he quickly walks out of the lab, his feet taking him to Darcy’s office without conscious effort. While he can’t exactly prevent you from dating, he can make damn sure you’ve chosen well. He’s a good friend, after all.

And if the twitch has suddenly returned to his prosthetic’s fingers after weeks of absence, well… that doesn’t really matter.

Can a person die from boredom? You’re certain that you’re about to find out. 

It’s your second date with Oscar, and boy are you regretting that decision. Originally, you agreed to meet him for lunch, because Julie had insisted that he’s the perfect match. Tall and athletic the man was easy on the eyes in a way that made him tolerable for about an hour. Unfortunately, your second date is dragging, and you are completely fed up with his ego. Oscar hasn’t stopped talking about himself for _three_ _bloody hours._ And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he was listing hobbies or talking about his missions, but the thinly veiled sexist jokes about female engineers, implications that you’re expected to ‘put out’ since it’s the second date, and the general narcissistic self worship are making your fingers itchy for a screwdriver. Stab one man and you get addicted, who knew?

Unlike doctors, engineers and technicians didn’t give oaths not to do harm unto others. 

“...Willa, you know? The sexy one with huge tits from the accounting? Well _she_ insisted we eat at an Indian restaurant. And let me tell you, the food was just as you’d expect from those-...”

Glaring at Oscar for the disgusting remarks, you pull out the vibrating phone and stare at the screen inquisitively. It’s an unknown private number, but seeing no harm in picking it up you excuse yourself from the table and step outside. 

“Hello?” Irritated by the date from hell, you sound a tad more bitchy than intended. 

A low rumble of a laugh and your name are your answer. “Hope I’m not interrupting? The newbie mentioned you were on a date.” Bucky’s amusement is almost palpable.

“No,” The smile is both involuntary and unavoidable. “You’re sort of saving me, to be honest.”

“That bad, huh?” His voice is like a caress, relaxing your shoulders and sending a shiver down the spine. “Do you need a rescue?”

“Nah, I’ll manage. I have a couple of tools with me, just in case.” His laughter is low. “Not that I’m weirded out by you knowing my number, though I am, but why exactly are you calling me, Buck?” You truly are curious. 

“I’m leaving tonight for a couple of weeks,” He pauses as if considering the next words carefully. “You weren’t at the lab.”

The words themselves aren’t all that incriminating, all things considered, and Bucky wonders if you’ll be able to read between the lines. However, this is not your first conversation with the moody soldier, so you hear the unspoken _‘I wanted to see you and say goodbye’._

“Oh,” Swallowing thickly you bite the lower lip and decide to tease him a bit. “Will that gorgeous arm of yours miss me?”

Rubbing a hand across the smile on his lips, Bucky doesn’t notice Steve hovering in the background, eavesdropping like the curious punk that he is. “Already does.”

The admission is heavy and sizzles in your brain, erasing all thoughts of Oscar and his predatory advances. 

“No worries, Buck. As soon as you’re back, I’ll fix you up.”

“Looking forward to it, doll.” He purrs. 

Bucky lowers his friend to a makeshift stretcher as carefully as he can, but even then Steve groans in pain, his injuries throbbing and burning. Other agents bustle around the Quinjet, patching up survivors and getting ready to leave. Everyone is exhausted, wounded, and their pain weighs on Bucky’s shoulders tasting like failure. It feeds the darkness and self-loathing that’s already simmering at the sight of his wounded friend, but he swallows the dark emotions until everything is taken care of. Motioning for the medic to come over and check up on Steve, Bucky gives the man a tense once-over.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Captain America groans, too weak to stand up, and Bucky’s heart twists at the sight. He struggles for a few minutes, but then an elderly field medic is pushing him back, and Steve gives his friend a pained smile. “Could you check up on things, while I recover?”

Ignoring the worried look (that punk is cut to ribbons and still...), Bucky moves to make the rounds and help everyone prepare for take off.

Hours later Steve finds his friend in the darkest corner of the Quinjet. The man is sitting still, eyes vacant and dark, hands clasped loosely in front of him, ready to grab the weapons at the moment’s notice. It’s not the first time Steve has seen this reaction, but it still terrifies him. Whenever a mission goes bad, Bucky tends to retreat back behind the Winter Soldier’s persona, avoiding touch and conversation, and stay there, sometimes for weeks.

And the only thing Steve can do is wait for it to pass.

“You alright, Buck?” It’s a stupid question - Bucky’s completely blank, of course he’s not well - but that’s not the point of it. Those words are simply the only way to let his friend know that Steve’s here for him. 

The soldier nods in understanding. 

Bucky’s steel arm keeps twitching and the upper plates jiggle suspiciously, but there’s no way he’s going to the lab in his current state. The darkness encroaching on his thoughts makes him dangerous, even to Steve, who’s currently heating dinner in Bucky’s kitchen. _‘No way I’m leaving you alone like this, Buck,’_ the blond insisted and sent him off to shower. Which is why he’s currently standing under the stream of hot water, trying to put himself back together. His muscles spasm at the memory of pulling the trigger, snapping a neck, breaking delicate bones. At times like these he feels more like a machine than man, and it makes his insides freeze with fear that perhaps that’s truly all that’s left of the actual Bucky Barnes. 

He should be dead, somewhere underneath train tracks, instead of rotting in a frozen carcass…

The sound of the doorbell makes Bucky jump backwards, back painfully ramming into the glass wall of the shower. 

Twisting the towel around his waist, grabbing a gun that’s hidden below the toilet lid, Bucky slides the bathroom door open and slips out just as Steve opens the door. 

You look exhausted - messy hair twisted into a bun, clothing thrown on haphazardly and eyes glazed with sleep - but the smile you give Steve in greeting remains the same. Bucky’s eyes widen as he takes you in, too shocked to make a hasty retreat before you notice his half-naked and armed self, which, naturally, you do as soon as Steve steps out of the way to let you in.

You take a step forward and immediately lock eyes with Bucky. Blinking rapidly you consider that Steve’s text hadn’t woken you up after all and you’re still dreaming, for the Winter Soldier is naked and wet, but the bruises and lacerations on his skin convince you otherwise. There’s a haunted expression on his face and a gun clenched between fleshy fingers, while silver ones jerk spasmodically. 

“It’s all right, Bucky, I called her to check on your arm,” Steve speaks up kindly, one hand gently holding your elbow in case you decide to take a step closer to the agitated soldier. “Is that alright?”

The three of you stand still and silent, listening in the sound of traffic outside and water dripping to the linoleum.

You don’t have experience with PTSD - or whatever it is that Bucky’s clearly going through - so you don’t approach him. But the sight of him, clearly in pain gives you enough courage to speak, even when he does look two seconds from putting the bullet through your brain.

“Please tell me you did not shower with the loose plates,” You grumble, eyes pointedly fixed on the upper part of the prosthetic. 

Bucky startles, lowering his gun and giving you a weak smile. “Sorry.” You have a feeling that he’s not apologizing just for the possible water damage (though there probably is none - there are enough water resistant levels to keep him safe even without the plates).

“Ugh,” Rolling your eyes for emphasis, you shake off Steve’s hold and finally step closer. “All right, mister. Put some pants on and let’s take a look.”

  
  


As expected, the damage to the prosthetic is minor. The portable scan you brought shows only minor problems, which you decide to leave for whenever Bucky can visit the lab. However, in light of such unimportant finding you’re confused as to why Steve has asked you to come over with such urgency. Glancing up at the man (now dressed in loose sportswear) across the table, you offer a tentative smile.

“Your arm is slightly beat up, but nothing debilitating,” Subconsciously you grasp the silver fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “You okay, Buck?”

His gaze remains fixed on the prosthetic, exhaustion making the gunmetal irises murky. “It stopped.”

Leaning closer to hear his voice you glance back at the silver hand and shrug. “What stopped?”

“The twitching,” Disentangling his fingers from yours, Bucky raises the hand. 

You assume it’s to repeat the movement that usually illustrates the tremble and smile, but then his fingertips steadily skim over the skin of your right cheek and those gunmetal eyes sharpen with curiosity. He traces the contours of your face with reverent tenderness, exhilarated to touch you without fear. A soft breath caresses his thumb that’s hovering just beside your lower lip and it takes a lot of self control to tear his gaze away from your lips. Your wide eyes with dilated pupils meet his, coaxing a smile out of Bucky. 

“Thank you,” It’s all but a whisper. He’d really like to kiss you, and he hates the darkness inside him for preventing him, but he just… can’t. Not now. 

You seem to read the intent nonetheless. 

Soft nimble fingers grasp at the silver wrist and pull the hand closer. Your gaze remains steadily locked with Bucky’s, waiting for any sign of discomfort, but when you find only eager anticipation, your lips slowly press against the palm. The man swallows at the sight, eyes growing even darker. 

“Any time, Buck.”

He takes a second to unscramble his thoughts under your watchful gaze. “Does this mean there’s a chance you might say yes to dinner?” Hushed, emotional questions make you squirm, so you reciprocate with teasing.

“I thought you weren’t interested?” Releasing his wrist you turn away, faking hurt like someone’s paying you to do it. 

Grinning Bucky grabs your chin gently between his fingers and lifts your eyes back to his. “As long as you promise to leave your tools behind, I’m interested.”

You laugh. “Don't forget to bring this beautiful arm of yours, and we’ve got a deal.”

For once in his life, Bucky is truly, without reservation thankful for the prosthetic.

**Author's Note:**

> This fiction is mostly fluff, but I couldn't help myself. ;* Thank you for reading!


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